


Every Night

by CreamyXD



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Daredevil Spoilers, Depression, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 03:15:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4987999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreamyXD/pseuds/CreamyXD
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Wesley's death, Fisk decides to visit him every night. Francis soon begins to wonder where his boss is disappearing to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Night

**Author's Note:**

> My first Daredevil fan fiction! I hope you will all enjoy!  
> This isn't slash but it can be interpreted that way if you wish.

Grey clouds loomed over the field of endless rows of tombstones. The cemetery was empty. There wasn't a single living soul in sight save for the small cluster of men and woman clothed in black. They huddled around a rectangular hole. Their eyes cast downwards into its seemingly never-ending darkness. A coffin was beside the gaping pit. It was sleek black with white lilies decorating the sides, and the body of a fellow comrade inside. Two men lifted the casket over their shoulders and began lowering it into the abyss. Once the casket had reached the bottom they picked up their shovels and began shoveling the dirt back into the hole.

Thunder began to rumble overhead. Rain poured down onto the group of men and woman as though even the heavens were mourning for their loss. Tears mingled with rain as they streaked down the faces of the people in the crowd. Soon, black umbrellas rose above the group, shielding them from the battering storm. When the men finished burying the coffin, the people steadily trickled away. The sea of black receding until there were only two men left standing before the grave.

Fisk had watched the proceedings quietly. He kept his head down, staring at the fresh mound of dirt as if expecting the man inside to suddenly rise from the dead but of course that wouldn't happen. That would take a miracle and there was no such thing as miracles.

Francis stood awkwardly on the side, umbrella in hand, shielding the larger man from the rain. He had never seen Fisk acting this way. Honestly, no one has, except, of course, Wesley, who was now buried six feet underground.

No matter how much time passed Francis stood dutifully by Fisk, who had allowed him to take Wesley's place after his death as his most trusted man. He waited and waited. Waited for what seemed like an eternity before Fisk finally showed signs of life. He moved rigidly and slowly towards the car parked by the pavement. Francis followed with the umbrella and entered the car after him. When they had gotten settled in, the driver took off.

Fisk did not move the entire trip. He remained motionless, staring absently out the window, but his eyes didn't register anything that passed. They were glazed over, dim, the soul drained from it's core, and in a way, it was true. The life was drained out of Fisk, for Wesley had been his world, his everything. He had been the fuel that kept the fire of his life burning and now, without it, his life has been reduced to nothing but a pile of ash.

\------

The next night, the sky was clear. The moon was up and the stars glistened. Darkness descended over Hell's Kitchen, enveloping everything into shadows. Most of its people had already turned in for the night, leaving the city in a quiet slumber.

A lone figure walked down the aisles of headstones, two glasses, a bottle of unopened wine, and a bouquet of violets in his hands. The man stopped in front of freshly buried grave. No grass grew over the mound that bulged from the Earth.

Fisk stared at the tombstone, a hand trailing the words engraved into the stone.

_James Wesley_

_Loyal till the end_

_April 27, 1981 - April 2, 2015_

Fisk set the flowers down on the mound of dirt and perched the wine glasses atop the stone. He uncorked the bottle of wine, a 75' Brunello di Montalcino, one of Wesley's personal favorite. He poured the wine into each glass then set the bottle down on the ground. He took a glass into his hand and held it up into the air towards the other glass, as if toasting a ghost. "This one is for you my friend," he says into the empty air, his voice hoarse.

He takes a long drink, almost draining the whole glass. He sets it back down after, gazing longingly at the stone for a long while before, finally, beginning to speak.

"I went to see mother today. She was the last person you spoke with, so, I was hoping that she could remember something. Unfortunately, she didn't, but I found something else. The news reporter, Ben Urich, he went to see her. Was he the one who killed you? That was what I kept asking myself. Over and over, like a record that question played in my mind. But no, Mr. Urich was not that type of man. He would not have killed. Though that did not save his life, he still threatened my mother, and so he had to die. I strangled him with my bare hands. He should consider himself lucky, had he been the one to kill you I would have done worse. So, much worse."

Fisk looked down at the grave, as if expecting a response but, of course, there wasn't one. He picked up the bottle and poured himself another glass.

\-----

Fisk appeared again the next night, a bottle of wine, two wine glasses, and a similar bouquet of flowers in hand. He placed the flowers on the ground, beside the ones from the previous night, set the glasses down on the headstone and poured wine into each. He took one of the glasses and gave a toast once again. He downed the drink in one gulp.

"I killed Leland today. The man betrayed me. He was the one that hurt Vanessa, him and Gao. I thought they killed you too, because you found out what they were doing, but it seems I was wrong again." Fisk takes in a shuddering breath. "I called mother again as well. She asked me where you were. I told her you were gone. She stayed silent for a moment then asked the same question again. I envy how easily it is for her to forget. I want to sometimes, but I don't. I hold onto the memory instead because I can't forget you. I won't forget you. You were my friend, and forgetting you would be like killing you all over again."

Fisk swirled the drink in his glass, watching the red liquid spin around and around.

\-----

Fisk headed to the cemetery every night, always bringing a bottle of 75' Brunello di Montalcino, two wine glasses, and a bouquet of violets. The pile of flowers soon grew, the earliest ones long wilted. The scent of wine soon began to linger in the air from the frequent visits. The aroma never fully able to dissipate before Fisk would come again.

Whenever he arrived the same routine would soon follow. He would set the flowers down, perch the wine glasses on the tombstone and pour wine in each. He would give a toast, and drain the glass before reciting the events of the day. To a passerby he might have seemed insane, and perhaps he was, just slightly. Losing a friend was never easy after all.

Francis found him in this way one night. It wasn't easy to find him. Francis had been wondering for days on the whereabouts of his boss. Fisk would always become unavailable at night. No one could reach him. No one knew where he was. Then, suddenly, he would reappear in the morning looking tired and drained. Francis had thought nothing of it at first. The man was distraught. He needed the time alone to wallow in his grief, to mourn. Francis had assumed it would pass and Fisk would return to normal quickly, but he was wrong. It kept happening. Fisk would disappear into the night without a trace only to appear again in the morning. So, tonight, Francis chose to follow him.

Francis now stood by a tree and listened to the larger man recount the days adventures. He stayed hidden, knowing this was supposed to be a private moment. He should leave, but he found himself glued in place, watching the scene unfold.

\-----

Francis arrived at the grave the following night. He carried with him a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a bouquet of violets. He stopped in front of the grave. He gave it a sad, long look before doing what Fisk had done every night before him. He poured the wine into each glass and gave a toast to Wesley, for he was his friend too. Francis drained the glass before looking back down at the grave. He gave a small, weary smile.

"Hello Wesley. It's Francis. Fisk won't be able to come anymore, at least for awhile. He was caught. The man in the mask got him. We almost got him away but we underestimated that vigilante. I'm sorry. I couldn't keep him safe. That's about all that happened today. I'll come see you again tomorrow."


End file.
